Porsche 911s. There are several reasons why I hate them, but mostly it’s because I don’t want to go for a drink with one. This, essentially, is the criteria I use to make a snap judgement on every new car. Take the Aston Martin DB11. When I first saw I knew I'd love it - go for drinks with one and there would be off-menu cocktails, supermodels called Irina and, inexplicably, we'd end the night running away from something over London Bridge. And the AMG Mercedes G Wagen. All you’d remember past those four vodkas at the Connaught is a surly Russian man patting down topsoil in a suburban wood.

But what about a 911? It wouldn’t regale you with sparkling anecdotes at the bar or try and get the waitress’ number – it’d order a tall glass of mineral water and head home early because it was doing a half marathon in the morning.

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Inexplicably, I'm very much alone and the Porsche 911 remains a car that a lot of people love. And not in a rational, I’ll-buy-one-because-I-have-lots-money-and-no-imagination sort of way; people have tattoos of them, write song lyrics about them, get buried in them. In fact, to say its fanbase is biblical doesn’t do the 911 justice: on Facebook it has 10.5 million likers, 7.7 million more than God.

Maybe it’s all the compelling cultural stuff that tightens the denim of 911 devotees – Le Mans victories, Steve McQueen, Le Mans the film, directed by and starring Steve McQueen – or that familiar, art deco computer mouse silhouette. Whatever, I don’t get it, but since Porsche recently reshuffled its product range I thought it was about time I drove one to see if I could.

Driving a £1 million car in the most beautiful race in the world

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Instantly, there was a problem. The heartland, everyman Carrera model that was delivered (3.0-litre, 365bhp) had herpes-red paint and the numberplate “A 911”, so everyone looked at me like I was individually responsible for the 2008 financial crisis. In fact, it remains the only car I’ve ever driven that’s moved a pedestrian to spit at me and shout “wanker” (honourable mention - Lamborghini Aventador for the “tiny dick” heckle of 2013).

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Things got a bit better when I got inside. The interior was a restful shade of grey and actually quite a nice little cabin to contemplate once I’d finished dodging the phlegm and profanity of Zone 3. Everything’s roughly where you’d want it to be, the sat-nav uses Google street view so you can see what the roofs of the buildings you’re driving past look like, and it beams the display onto the instrument cluster so your passenger can fiddle without buggering up your directions. And you will need a passenger because the buttons are small and fiddly, but only Audi, Rolls-Royce and Volvo seem to be able to get this right, so I’ll let if off.

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But this car is and always has been about the driving experience. As every motoring hack worth their driving gloves has already told you, the engine is in the boot. In the early days before traction control, taking a 911 for a spin had a very literal meaning, but in 2016 you barely notice. Using the brand's wellspring of racing knowhow, it completely defies its bum-engined layout and gets down the road at any speed you like with tireless precision.

And unlike all the shouty, Italian supercars that it’s pretty much as fast as (even in bottom-of-the-range Carrera trim) putting your foot down isn’t all terrifying bangs and flames. I’m loathe to admit it, but the 911 got me down my local roads more quickly than cars with twice the power, and despite the increase in speed the experience was about as intimidating as a knitted cushion. It’s mastered the knotty art of telegraphing exactly what’s going on at the tyres through the steering wheel so you know exactly when you're pushing too much or could push more. Nothing before or since has given me so much confidence.

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Such an all-rounder it should be spherical

I’m also loathe to admit that the engine is just as good. For this generation it’s been turbocharged, which for some 911 disciples is heresy because it doesn’t sing at quite as high a pitch when you rev it, but it still accelerates without a single peak or valley – just giant gusts of torque (the stuff that pushes you into your seat) all the way through the rev range. More refined than the supercars its cheaper than, more polished than everything it’s more expensive than; genteel in traffic and a monster on B-road. It’s such an all-rounder it should be spherical.

But I’ve not gone full 1984 here. I get it, I respect it, I appreciate the lengths that Porsche has gone to refining a rear-engined car so it drives as well as this, but I don’t love it. Currently, there’s no known cure for being a bit German, but that’s what this car needs. It’s superb, but precise and joyless. Great cars, like great drinking partners, manage to do all the things they set out to but surprise you with a little extra something. Like the burnout button in the new Ford Mustang or a Rolls-Royce starlight headliner. I don't hate the 911, but I know now more than ever that I couldn’t trust it with my Saturday night.